A Good Day
by Eve Levine
Summary: Gone are the soft greens and blues, and precise little strokes of her landscapes. The last one of those, a cherry tree in full blossom, was almost done when her hand was ruined. Sequel to the one-shot Family Circle. Set a couple of months after season four.
1. Chapter 1

_A.N.- I don't own any of these characters. They all belong to Kurt Sutter._

_This is a sequel to my one-shot Family Circle that goes with the idea of Tara being the person who painted all of the paintings on the walls of their house, and also that she and Abel bond by doing a lot of drawing together. That one was set before season four while Jax was still in jail and this one takes place a couple of months after season 4 ends. It's bound to be completely AU once season 5 starts. This was supposed to be a one-shot but it has gotten too long and cumbersome to edit so I'm posting the first part now. It'll be two or three chapters, and I know my track record for finishing fics sucks, but this one is almost completely written, so it should be a quick one. ;-)_

_This one is for all the ladies on the thread. You know who you are.  
_

_Also, don't let the angst of the first half scare you away. There's an illegal amount of fluff heading right towards this fic.  
_

* * *

Tara lets Jax help her every morning now when she dresses.

Buttons and ties have become the enemy. She does own easier clothing. Her closet is stuffed with yoga pants, tank tops with shelf bras, and slip on shoes, but without the hospital as a touchstone, Tara feels like she's ghosting through her days when she stays in her pajamas.

Jax found her about a month ago, squirming and defiant and rolling on the bed, waging a one-handed war against her clothing. He offered to assist and Tara let him know she could do it herself. Jax snorted at that and helped her anyway, saying he couldn't stand to watch her struggle.

So he clasps her necklace, hooks her bra, and tugs her jeans up over the last few inches of her hips, fastening the button and lifting the zipper. There is sweetness in these early mornings, or at least Tara thinks there should be. But in no other part of the day does Tara feel as helpless as she does in the mornings, and Jax for his part seems unable to look at her. His eyes skittishly dart around, his lips press into a tight line, and guilt pours off of him so thickly Tara almost chokes on it. As if for both of them, it is inescapable in this one moment every day that his lifestyle, his club, _his family_, is the reason she no longer has full use of one hand, and it leaves them bruised and sore.

This morning he kneels in front of her. Tara's good hand rests on his shoulder for balance while he helps her into her boots. He reaches for her waist, but instead of buttoning her jeans, his hands curl around her hips and his head dips down, his breath hot on her belly.

"I miss you so much," he whispers into the skin at her waist. Starting at her navel, he slowly kisses down her stomach, pushing aside the open front of her jeans so he can suck on her hipbones. Desire licks through Tara, surprising her, welcome and foreign, like an old forgotten friend.

There have been surgeries and casts, and re-learning how to juggle babies, and examining the remains of her career. There's been Clay… and Piney, and the accusations in those letters that Jax has read and re-read late into the night, smudging and wearing away the edges of the paper as he worries it between the pads of his fingers. Tara has put on a composed face for the club, supporting Jax in his new role, knowing he doesn't truly want to be there, and trying to ease his burden. And Jax has held her at four in the morning when the weight of what she's lost is too heavy to carry in silence, catching her wrist and kissing her knuckles, when she repeatedly punches her good hand against their headboard in frustration. They're making it work, getting through it, but it's been many weeks since they've done anything more than sleep in their bed.

Tara brings her hands up to hold him against her, an unconscious gesture, almost forgetting her injuries. One hand skims deftly through his short hair to rub his scalp, the other one twitches against his head, uncooperative and clumsy. She lifts her damaged hand and looks at it. She has some mobility and some feeling now. Tara gingerly curls her fingers and tries to touch the tips of them one by one against her thumb, practicing opposition.

Her pinky works perfectly and her ring finger, only half controlled by her crushed median nerve, is bouncing back the fastest. These victories feel small and empty to Tara when her first two fingers and most of her thumb remain stubborn and numb. And the places on her hand that aren't numb are still incredibly tender. Tara can't make a fist. She can't open a jar of baby food, or hold a paintbrush, or tie her shoes, or trust her good hand enough to bathe Thomas' wiggling and slippery body.

She's still not herself.

The pang of desire fades away, as she stares at her hand, willing it to work properly. She's been silent for too long and she can feel Jax's eyes on her, waiting and expectant.

"I miss me too," She admits finally, her voice a floating, far away, thing. It's not the response he was looking for. Jax huffs and gets to his feet. He does up her jeans quickly and with ease, and Tara finds herself resenting his nimble fingers.

He catches her gaze and holds it with a searching look. He's weary, a little impatient, and when he speaks, his words are full of sighs. "Tara, you've gotta have a good day today. I got club business in Oakland, and I'm not gonna be back until late. I can't rush home if you need me, so please have a good day."

When he's not suffocating her with his guilt, he's gauging her, checking her eyes for the manic shine of a crazy person, and looking for her breaking point. He seems to no longer trust her judgment, or her ability to reason, and that wakes something curved and green and venomous inside Tara. In these unpredictable moments that seize her every so often now, when her thoughts tense and coil around themselves, she wants to strike out at Jax and poison what's left of the sweet things between them.

"I'll be just fine, Jax. I know the club needs you." She taunts, her smile bright and biting. Jax's face shuts down as he sucks in his breath. He closes his eyes, his grip on her shoulders tightens, and he shakes his head slowly from side to side.

Tara instantly regrets the sharp insinuation in her words and the fresh hurt they may have caused. She steps closer and rejects the hissing urge to destroy fragile things. She slips her good hand under the soft material of his t-shirt. Tara winds her arm around him and lays her forehead against his chest.

"Sorry… I didn't mean that." She whispers. "Really, I'll be okay."

Jax relaxes against her and wraps her up in a hug. "Elyda will be back with the boys this afternoon." He says and pulls back. "Do you want me to call my mom? She could help you with them tonight." He says with some reluctance.

Tara shakes her head. The hard won trust between Tara and Gemma is gone now. It burnt away so quickly, so completely, it's almost like it never existed at all, and in the long nights, in the quiet, when she's mourning her hand, Tara's doubt in Gemma grows, following shadowed paths. She doesn't want Gemma anywhere near her right now.

"Why don't you want her to help you?" He asks softly, but there's a weight to his voice.

Tara looks at Jax. She can tell he's trying to push her forward through her long silences, as she gets distracted by the chattering of her mind. Instead of impatience this time, she finds an intense focus in Jax's eyes while his lips twitch with suppressed emotion. He's asking a silent question, or willing her to make a connection, and she can tell by the way he's bracing his shoulders he doesn't really want the answer. The truth of it pours icily down her body, washing away her earlier bitterness as she puts it together.

_Oh baby, _she thinks staring back into his eyes. _You suspect she was in on it too. It wasn't Clay alone who killed your father. He had help and that's so big, neither of us can say it out loud… Not yet. _

"Sometimes…" Tara says, losing her nerve and breaking the spell between them. She holds up her good hand and pretends to crush something in her clenching fist. "Your mother holds on a little too tightly."

Jax laughs and rolls his eyes. He sighs again, this time in commiseration. "Don't I know it?" He says and he looks relieved when she doesn't confirm what he can't ask.

Jax's hands go to her hair and he kisses her, a hard press of lips with half the heat he showed a few minutes earlier, and Tara feels a pang of regret because she knows that's her fault. She pulls him back against her for another hug, rubbing his shoulders and ribs, trying to smooth out hurt feelings like they are wrinkles in his t-shirt.

"I gotta go. Have a good day." He says, appraising her again before he heads out the door.

Tara wanders into the kitchen to seek out the coffee pot. She has a little time to spare before her physical therapy appointment. The half finished canvas on her easel in the dining room catches her eye. She sits down in front of it, sips her coffee, and holds the warmth of the mug against her cheek as she considers this new painting.

Gone are the soft greens and blues, and precise little strokes of her landscapes. The last one of those, a cherry tree in full blossom, was almost done when her hand was ruined. She wanted to capture the petals in motion as they fluttered to the ground, and before she was attacked Tara was proud of the breeze she could almost feel blowing the flowers through her painting. But after she was released from the hospital, the finely shaped petals seemed to mock her and everything she lost.

Tara took a box cutter and a boot heel to that last pretty painting and dumped the remains in the trash can next to the garage. She knows Jax considers that day to be one of her bad days.

This new painting looks like nothing she's ever done before. It's angry, all browns and reds with brilliant yellows shooting through it and interconnecting like the branches of a tree. The strokes are different too. Her left hand is still a surgeon's hand but it doesn't have the same control as her right, giving the painting a rougher, chaotic feel. But more than that, it's the first time she's ever sat down without a plan or a sketch and just put paint to canvas. Tara wasn't sure what she was making, was only glad her left hand could paint at all.

It was Jax who spied the method in her madness. A few days ago he looked at her work for a long moment before gesturing to the streaks of yellow. "Are those nerves?" He asked her, his eyes sad. "Is this the inside of your hand?"

Tara was startled, and looked back at the canvas. She could see it then and she found herself stripped bare by his question. Her eyes welling with the raw tenderness she feels every time she finds Jax digging in her medical books and looking for his own answers.

"It isn't anything. It's abstract." She answered quickly, ducking her head, her words tasting like lies. Tara could tell he didn't believe her, but he let it drop after that, leaving her alone with her painting to contemplate the power of her sub-conscious mind.


	2. Chapter 2

_A.N- Thanks to everyone who reviewed and a special thanks to **Norrific** for always being incredibly thoughtful and helpful. You're the best, woman!_

* * *

Physical Therapy goes as well as it ever does. Tara tries to be a good patient. She does all the exercises they want her to work on at home, but she doesn't let them know how often she takes off her brace. She didn't wear it for much of the morning. She mostly uses it when she sleeps and when she's around the boys because they are too young to understand how careful they need to be with her hand. But Amber, the physical therapist, with her overly cheerful voice, doesn't need to know that. Amber thinks she sees an improvement in Tara's mobility over the last week, and Tara shrugs and admits she hasn't noticed any changes.

"Well, nerves grow slowly." Amber sing-songs at her like she's a child, and Tara stifles the urge to remind her she's dealing with a surgeon. "And maybe you can't see it, because you're always dealing with it, but I can see there's been a distinct improvement this week."

Maybe it's true. Maybe Amber's right. Maybe there's been an improvement. But Amber's words, no matter how condescending the tone, are dangerous because they sound an awful lot like hope. And Tara's learned over and over again in the last few years that all hope leads to disappointment.

Tara takes the elevator up to Margaret's office. They have a meeting scheduled, and Tara knows she's a little early, but she finds Margaret already in her office with the door open.

"I found a spot for you," Margaret bursts out by way of greeting. "Actually I found two." She says and Tara drops into a chair and finds she's at a loss for words. "As you know, there's nothing available in the NICU but there's room in pediatrics and in obstetrics. I've talked to the heads of both departments. You've got a job, you just need to pick one." Margaret finishes and Tara can tell by Margaret's proud smile that she worked very hard to secure a position for her.

Tara's throat tightens. So grateful to have a job and so touched by Margaret's efforts. This woman has gone above and beyond for Tara in so many ways. Still it isn't surgery. It isn't taking tiny babies on the brink of death and repairing their broken bodies. Tara wipes away her tears, both the ones filled with gratitude and the ones stuffed with self-pity, before they can fall.

"It won't be the same." Tara admits.

"Of course it won't." Margaret agrees lightly as she smiles, seeming to have no time for Tara's self-pity. "You'll actually have to talk to patients now and improve that bedside manner."

"My bedside is okay." Tara laughs. It's a choked, wet sound, rusty and unused, but it's a real laugh.

"Please, all surgeons are terrible with patients." Margaret scoffs, still smiling. "Trust me, this I know."

Tara reaches over the desk and touches Margaret's hand. "Thank you, so much for everything you've done." She says sincerely. "Really… Thank you."

"This is what I'm here for. You know I could do this for you at another hospital. You don't have to stay here. You could still go."

"No, I can't. This is my home." Tara says and she means it. There's no way she could abandon Jax. Not when his arm is being twisted and he has no choice. Not when he needs her to stand beside him. He would never abandon her… ever. He hasn't abandoned her now, even when he looks at her sometimes like he's worried she's losing her mind. If she leaves, she's leaving with him, not without him.

"Okay, well I had to try." Margaret says, her tone growing more serious. "There's one other thing we still need to talk about." Margaret pauses and looks down at the papers on her desk, rustling and rearranging them, stalling for time.

Tara knows then what's coming, what Margaret doesn't want to talk about. There's no getting around the truth that Tara would have been back to work weeks ago if she hadn't re-smashed her hand the day after her first surgery. It caused further damage to her median nerve, slowing her recovery and alerting the staff -her employers- to potential emotional problems with their injured Dr. Knowles.

"Go ahead and say it," Tara says and closes her eyes, presses her lips together, and waits.

Margaret tells her she's sorry, and breaks it to her in gentle tones, but no amount of Margaret's string pulling can waive the full psychological evaluation Tara will have to undergo before she's cleared to return. Tara's face flames with embarrassment. She still can't believe she lost it and let loose the feral piece of herself within the hospital walls. Tara nods her assent. She'll submit to the evaluation. She thanks Margaret and hugs her before she leaves.

The walk to her car is unbearable. Tara keeps her eyes down and her feet moving. She's worked long and hard on her control, taming her impulsive and often destructive desires, cleaning up the wreckage of her childhood. Making sure her children know peace within the walls of their home, making sure they know they are loved. Doing more with herself than anyone, her father and Gemma included, ever thought she could accomplish, and it almost slipped between her numb fingers.

Tara climbs into her car and slumps down pressing her forehead against the steering wheel. Wendy sometimes works as a drug counselor on the same floor as the hospital psychologist. Tara might run into Wendy, the woman who sparked the fit of fury that has the administrators so concerned, when she has to go and be evaluated by him. And as humiliating as it is, Tara knows the hospital is giving her a pass. They didn't need to find room for her in their ranks. They could've just let her go, and so Tara attempts to quiet her bitterness. She tries not to think about the knife she keeps in her purse, and she tries her absolute hardest not to wonder if burying the knife in the office door of the hospital psychologist would qualify as an automatic fail.

She's actually gotten pretty good with the knife, Tara thinks as she drives home. It was a gift from Chibs, who pressed it into her palm after she spent an afternoon with him and Jax, shooting and re-learning how to handle a gun with her left hand. He told her to carry it on her always. Samcro may have views about hurting the wives and children of their enemies, but it was past the time to stop expecting their enemies to show the same consideration. Tara showed the knife to Jax that night after the boys went to bed and was surprised by the alarm that filled his face.

"Do you know how to use a knife?" He asked her while he examined the blade.

"I know how to use a scalpel." She answered and he shook his head, worry creasing his brow.

"It's not the same thing, Tara. Knives are up close kills, messy, nothing like guns, and you don't ever introduce one into a fight unless you know how to use it. Otherwise the other guy takes it away from you and uses it on you."

So out they'd gone into the back yard for an impromptu lesson and sparring match, Jax giving her the basics on how not to fall on her own sword. Tara tried to absorb everything he said, practiced and tried to memorize every slash of his arms, and only objected when he showed her the places on his body where she should try to stick her knife if he was her opponent.

"No," Tara corrected him, moving his hand two inches lower and a little to the left. "This is a more direct hit. Deadlier."

"How do you know that?" He asked her, sounding amazed.

"Jax, I know how to use a scalpel." She reminded him and he nodded at that.

"Kinda scary babe," he admitted before he licked his lips, one hand moved to cover hers and pressed it to his chest. "And _so_ fucking hot." He said with a laugh.

From then on they traded information, Jax teaching her the secrets of getting inside her opponent's mind and Tara showing him the less obvious and most destructive places to open up a person's body. They worked and fought, being careful of her bad hand which was still in a cast, until they were tired and panting, and then the energy shifted between them as they looked at each other.

Tara dropped her knife on the back porch and seized Jax's shirt in her good hand, and pulled him into a bruising kiss. Tara was surprised they made it to their bedroom that night, the need between them was so great, but they did make it and it was rough and hard, and everything Tara wanted at that moment. It was also the last time they'd had sex, because in the morning he had to help her dress, and she almost dropped Thomas when she went to lift him out of his crib, and the honest things they'd whispered into each other's sweat slicked necks were swallowed back up by a loaded silence.

Tara pulls up in the driveway, beating Elyda and the boys home by seconds. Thomas is conked out in his seat but Abel excitedly slaps his hands against the car window and waves to Tara. As soon as he's unhooked from his car seat, Abel launches himself at her legs, bursting with all the details of their day at the zoo. Tara banishes Jax and the psych eval to the back of her mind, and focuses all of her attention on her boys.

They put Thomas down in his crib, and Elyda helps Tara prep dinner and put it in the fridge while Abel has a snack and tells Tara all about the giraffe that stretched out its long tongue and even longer neck to take the offered leaves from Abel's hand.

After Elyda leaves, Abel runs to get his crayons and his coloring books. Initially, when she came home in the huge sling and cast, Abel was stricken by her injury, worried she couldn't draw with him anymore. Tara couldn't bear the quiver in his lip so she put him on her lap and gave it a shot with her left hand. The pictures she does with him are so simplistic that she manages just fine, and if the lines were a little wobbly at first, she's gotten better with practice. It was those brightly colored ducks and spotted dinosaurs she made with Abel that gave her the nerve to put a paintbrush in her left hand.

Abel doesn't come back with his crayons though. He comes back clutching his birthday present from Lyla, a set of finger paints. Lyla swore up and down they were washable, but her smile was _too _innocent as she welcomed Tara into the "toddler years," and said that it was the "perfect gift" because Tara painted too. Tara laughed, told Lyla she was the worst sort of evil, and threatened to bill her for the carpet cleaning. Then she hid the paints at the back of Abel's closet. And yet, he keeps rooting them out and asking to play with them.

"Please Mommy," he pleads, holding out the paints and the giant pad of paper that came with them. It's there on the tip on her tongue to say no. It'll make a mess and be a hassle, but she finds herself saying yes to those big, hopeful eyes.

She strips Abel down to his Iron Man underwear and they spread out the paper on the kitchen floor. They work together to open the pots of paint and she teaches him how to carefully dip his fingers into them and then spread the color on his paper. Abel lays on his stomach, his feet kicked into the air as he works, laughing at the swirls of color he's creating. Tara dips her fingers into the yellow paint and decides to make a lion. She wipes her fingers on a paper towel and goes for the red next.

"No Mommy, like this!" Abel squeals excitedly holding up his hands. One is blue and the other is green. "Both hands, Mommy! I paint so fast." Abel boasts.

Tara takes off her brace and moves her fingers. What can it hurt if she tries to paint with her bad hand? She can count it as physical therapy. Tara touches the red paint with the tips of her fingers, and she can feel the coolness of it. Her sense of hot and cold is coming back. She works the red into the mane of the lion, making a fiery orange on the paper when it mixes with the yellow.

Using her damaged fingers as a blunt instrument works better than she thought it would. The picture, while crude, is still obviously a lion, and Tara discards Abel's two-handed approach and focuses on her right hand. The finer details of the face are harder, but Tara doesn't give up, pushing her fingers to follow her commands, and here she sees it, what Amber was talking about. Her hand does move better. It listens better, feels more sensations, and even though she scrutinizes her progress every day, she somehow wasn't paying close enough attention.

Tara finishes the lion and shows it to Abel, who claps his hands, mixing his different colors together, and doesn't know what to do with the swelling, tingling, feeling in her chest that makes her want to dance around the room.


	3. Chapter 3

_A.N.- Thank you so much to everyone who alerted, reviewed, or marked this fic as a favorite. There maybe one or two chapters left and I'm going to hustle and get it done before the season five premiere next week (Yay!) because this fic will be completely AU once it starts._

* * *

Tara and Abel fill piece after piece of paper with pictures, most of them the zoo animals Abel saw earlier and can't stop talking about. He doesn't remember exactly what all of them look like, or what they're all called, so Tara grabs his A to Z animal book out of his room and flips through the pictures for him until he picks out his animal. With only four pots of paint, they have to get creative with the colors, so there are blue zebras, green hippos, and a red bear to hang on Abel's wall when they are done. She has to help him with the giraffe's unusual proportions, guiding his little fingers across the paper while he giggles.

As it always does, drawing, and now painting with Abel, soothes Tara, gentles her. Takes her back to the brief, sweet, years she had with her mother, bringing with it a longing ache. Tara wishes her mother could have known her boys.

Their painting time is winding down, the finishing touches being dotted onto their yellow and blue giraffe, when Thomas wakes up. She puts most of the paint pots on the counter and washes her hands. Back into the brace she goes and she tells Abel to add the giraffe to the pictures drying on the kitchen table when he's done with the last of the blue spots.

Thomas is fussing when she lifts him out of his crib. Her baby is hot, having sweat through his clothes while he slept. Tara feels the damp, curling hair at the nape of his neck and heads to the changing table. Baby clothes, with their tiny snaps and tight necklines she has to maneuver over Thomas' uncooperative head, are a challenge. So are changing diapers, a feat now taking all of Tara's patience and concentration, though she has gotten way better at using her bad arm to hold up his feet and stop his exuberant kicks. And while Jax does bathe Thomas for her, and falls over himself to help her get dressed in the morning so she doesn't have to struggle, she can't help but wryly think that he has a convenient blind spot when it comes to Thomas' diapers… and his own laundry.

Tara leaves Thomas in just his diaper so he can cool off and carries him into the kitchen to grab a bottle. She sets him on the floor with a toy, and turns her back for one second to warm it up, when things quickly spiral out of control. All she hears is the quick thump and rustle of Thomas scooting across the floor before Abel hollers in dismay. Thomas has tipped over the blue paint they forgot on the floor and his curious little hands are covered with it up to his wrists. Tara's reaches for the towel and then kneels by the baby, but before she can wipe him clean, Thomas touches himself and spreads the blue paint across his chest and belly. He looks up at her then, her little man who hates being sticky, holding his blue hands out to her in a mute appeal. Tara laughs and tickles the dimples in his cheeks. Thomas catches her laugh and spreads the paint up into his hair in his excitement, looking like a baby Celt gearing up for a battle, which makes Tara laugh harder. Abel jumps up and comes over to them, wanting to know what's so funny.

"Thomas looks like a warrior covered in all that paint." Tara snickers as she wipes the baby's hands clean and then starts on his hair.

"What's a warrior?" Abel asks confused, and Tara feels the thud of the question. Thinks for a moment she may have stepped wrong here, introducing a concept to her son too early. Tara carefully gives him the Disney cartoon explanation about warriors and their war paint, and hopes that will be the end of it.

"Mommy, let's paint me. I wanna be a warrior." Abel says, bouncing next to her while she gets the last of the paint off of Thomas, and then Tara knows for sure she stepped wrong. The warrior thing is going to stick. "Please Mommy… can we?" He pleads, and for a moment all she can see is Wendy on his little face. Both her boys look so much like Jax, but as they grow, it's in their differences, the pieces of Abel and Thomas that don't look alike, where Tara can see Wendy's stamp on Abel. She can see it in the slight almond tilt at the corners of his eyes, and the downward pull of his mouth when he's about to cry, and especially right now in the hopeful and tremulous smile he's shining at her while he begs to cover himself in paint.

She looks at the puddle of blue paint on the floor. It's smeared into trails at the edges from the questing hands and knees of her baby, and she knows that puddle is just the beginning of the colorful disaster that lies over the edge of this cliff. Tara's lips quirk into a smile, and the small piece of her that likes to leap into open space and worry about the landing when she crashes, says yes to Abel. He squeals and bounces around the kitchen while Tara gets Thomas his bottle.

"I wanna be Iron Man. Make me Iron Man." He says pointing to his chest and can barely stop wiggling enough for Tara to paint the yellow triangle where he wants it to go. Tara ghosts her fingertips over Abel's scars as she paints his torso in reds and yellows, and she thinks about cool air, bright lamps, blood, and nimble hands that seek out and repair damage. She can't look at Thomas without thinking about the pain and sweat… and _accomplishment _of his birth. It's always there mixed into every thought and emotion as he grows and changes. With Abel it's those first few tentative days and those surgeries… an accomplishment of a different kind.

_Oh God, never again… I'll never be able to do that again._

Tara's love for Abel came slowly, built over days and weeks. When he was born she felt for Wendy and wanted to stand between her and the gale of Gemma's fury. Having been on the receiving end many times, Tara's never liked to see Gemma act the bully. And Tara ended her only pregnancy right away, so she didn't feel like she had any room to judge Wendy or her troubles.

It wasn't until she carried Thomas that she found a new perspective on Wendy. Her love for Thomas came slowly too, as he developed and moved and hiccupped inside her. Tara knows fetal development backwards and forwards but what her education and her career couldn't prepare her for was how it _felt_ to carry a child. The ambivalence of her early pregnancy melted away and was replaced by a love so honed and fiercely sharp it could cut. He wasn't born yet and she loved him. That's when Wendy stopped making sense to her. And Tara found a white hot rage flowing through her on Abel's behalf, finally understanding the extent of Wendy's betrayal of her son.

She cups Abel's face, painting a few red stripes low on his cheeks, and looks into his ecstatic eyes. Some of that rage at Wendy surges inside her, feeling like it could split her open and spill out. But it is quelled by the calm whisper of a new thought. It is cold, almost clinical, and completely serious.

_If she ever hurts you again, I will kill her._

Tara leans forward and kisses Abel's forehead, breathing in his scent, letting that calm her.

_Maybe Gemma had a point when she slipped her that syringe. _

She shakes her head and backs up a bit, pushing that thought down to a dark, locked place. She's not in the business of rationalizing Gemma's motives. Not when she and Jax are still fumbling and regrouping from the last time Gemma tried to steer them onto a path she wanted.

There is a tug on her shirt. Tara turns to see Thomas pulling himself up onto his feet using her clothing to balance. She puts her arm out to steady him. A giggle from Abel, she can only think of as naughty, turns her gaze back towards him. Abel's fingers got into the red when she shifted to help Thomas, and he gifts her with his most angelic smile as he reaches for her face and rubs splotches of paint onto her cheeks.

"You're a warrior now too Mommy!" He exclaims and scampers backwards before Tara can tickle him. Tara makes wide sweeping grabs for Abel making him squeal and run around her, while Thomas wobbles and holds onto the brace on her bad hand.

Thomas has been doing a lot of this lately, holding onto people's fingers or the furniture and walking around the perimeter. He's building his muscles and practicing balance, learning how to use the feet he spent most of his infancy chewing on. He's always trying to catch up with Abel. He's trying to catch up with Abel now, scooting around Tara and dropping his bottle to reach one arm out towards his big brother. Tara's sure he'll get impatient soon and drop to his hands and knees to crawl after Abel. But he doesn't. He moves farther and farther away from her until he lets go, and arms in the air, careening from side to side like a crab, Thomas takes his first steps.

The world stands still for Tara while he shuffles away from her. Even Abel stops skipping around the kitchen to stare. It's only about four steps before Thomas realizes he's not hanging onto anything and his head whips around looking for her, knocking him off balance. He thumps down onto his butt and looks as surprised as Tara feels. Watching Thomas hit this milestone, pushing himself into new territory, brings back the tingling, euphoric feeling she had earlier. Again she wants to dance around the room, and this time she does.

Tara whoops as she scoops Thomas up and covers him in kisses. She turns on the radio and bounces Thomas to the music. She wants to share this with somebody, this important moment, but Jax is securing a deal with Lin, and well Gemma… is Gemma. When Abel first walked, it was between her arms and Gemma's, both of them beaming. She knows Gemma will be upset she missed Thomas' first steps, and she wishes Gemma was truly the person her public face presents, but Gemma's dangerous and way more complicated than that. And even if Tara longs for her sometimes the way she longs for her own mother, she still won't call her and invite her over.

Tara sets Thomas on his feet and cheers when he tries walking again. He goes further this time with his slow lumbering steps, and Tara holds her breath when one of his feet comes in contact with the puddle of blue paint she forgot to clean up. She's certain it's going to make him slip and is strangely delighted when all it does it leave a trail of blue footprints in his wake. Abel likes that too, clapping his hands and shouting.

Somewhere in that moment, Tara thinks she really must have lost her mind, because the next thing she does is grab the other colors and make a hand print in red on the cupboard door. And then Abel gets bold and puts a hand print on the floor and Tara presses one of hers right next to it. And then the radio gets turned up. And Tara dips Thomas' feet in paint again and presses his little feet everywhere. She steadies him as he walks around the kitchen while Abel goes wild. Tara's not thinking about the mess. She's not thinking about her hand. She's not thinking about the heavy boot holding Jax down and keeping them in Charming. She's singing to the music, putting joyous splashes of color around the room, and dancing with her babies.

"What's going on in here?" A voice asks behind her. Tara startles and she whips around. Jax is leaning in the doorway of the laundry room, an unreadable expression on his face. Tara feels caught, sheepish, like a child discovered making mischief. Jax is far from a clean freak, but they left things on a strained note this morning, and she hopes he isn't pissed about the mess. Her boys have no such worries. Thomas pumps his arms up and down when he sees Jax, his wobbly legs giving out on him. Abel's head snaps up too and he lets out an excited squeal.

"Daddy!" He shouts, running over and wrapping his color smeared hands and body around Jax's leg. "We're painting the kitchen!"

Jax nods his head as he surveys the damage, taking in the little hand and feet prints dotting the tile floor, the counters, and the cupboards. "I can see that, buddy." He says mildly. Jax lifts Abel's chin and arms and checks out the designs on his body before he looks at Tara with a question on his lips.

"Lyla swears it's washable." is all Tara's got for an explanation. An amused sort of confusion fills his face, narrowing his twinkling eyes and tugging the edges of his mouth up at the corners.

"So… you painted the house… and _the boys… _and yourself with it?" He asks and Tara's tongue begins fighting a battle between silly and surly. Her opposing impulses call it a draw and decide together that sheepish explanations are for the weak. And she is not weak. She is a warrior.

"Yup, I did." Tara states, hand on her hip, daring him to complain.

Jax laughs then, his face lighting up with a huge grin, and Tara finds herself laughing and grinning back, the dam bursting between them, and Tara can't hold back the overflowing giddiness she's been feeling since Abel busted out the paints and her fingers _moved _when she wanted them to.

* * *

_A.N. #2- Not that it's hugely important, but **Givelovesolong **I thought you should know the song playing when Tara turns up the radio to go wild with the paints is Viva La Vida. ;-) _


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